The train we caught from Willesden station in London’s suburbs had carried us dutifully to our connecting station but there we were met with a beautifully decorative (but rather stern) iron grill. The line was CLOSED.

“Part of the tube might be closed …”
Sarah had woken up at 5am to see us off. Waving us off from the doorstep in her dressing-gown, she had reminded us again that delays and station closures are common on weekends.

NOW: with the clock ticking loudly in the background like a bad gameshow, we are winding our way through the wintry bowels of the tube. Adrenlin has kicked in so I am feeling less tired and nauseaus but the steep stairs have to be taken slowly due to wooziness.

How do we get to Kings Cross Station? FAST?

We find a guard with bushy eyebrows and an official-looking jacket. He gives directions that sound something like
“Depart west from Cyprus via East India, board at Canada Water, travel to Mudchute but not all the way to Tooting Broadway, alight at Shepherd’s Bush and board at St.John’s Wood avoiding St.James’ Park and St.Pauls, then get off at the Elephant and Castle near NutBushcitylimits.”
These directions make me want to cry. My heroic husband just narrows his eyes and squints at the little tube map. Reuben makes snoring sounds in his stroller. A man in red trousers walks past carrying a cello. The clock ticks on.
We need to get to Kings Cross Station to get the bus to the airport. If we miss our plane, we will miss our opportunity to go to Spain. I really want to go to Spain.

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